


Glass

by StairwellWit



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Slight purple prose, as usual, dominance through submission, submission through dominance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 16:06:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18854428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StairwellWit/pseuds/StairwellWit
Summary: He wants Hannibal to say what this is.This song and dance between them.





	Glass

**Author's Note:**

> this was just a short thing i wrote one day when i was having a bad time with my anxiety  
> i love the idea/show of dominance/submission via less traditional blatant means

Will feels an empty tug of hunger to be the broken glass grinding under Hannibal's shoe. Longs almost hysterically for it. The open wound of his cup is bleeding Bordeaux on the floor, deep and venous.  
He wants Hannibal to say what this is.  
This song and dance between them.  
Because the tune is too sheer for Will to grasp. Like nylon stretched too tight but not yet broken. Will thinks if he could just snag one inch, he could run the whole thing down. Shed a light on what this is. He wants Hannibal to tell him. Damn near wants to demand it, but for once his words are caught in his throat, subito and so alarmingly solid that he nearly gags on them. Hannibal is kneeling in front of him so suddenly Will can only cough out a sticky syllable that sounds suspiciously like "Christ." Which only seems half likely; since neither of them believe and even if they did Jesus should be left out this..this.. whatever it is happening between them in the dining room floor. Impulse says to grab for Hannibal, to grimace at the crunch of glass into his kneecaps. That Italian suit is soaking up it's ruin pressed into the wood floor, which is a thought Will distantly realizes never would have crossed his mind a few months before. While he has never cared about clothes, he also has never known anyone that could afford Italian suits.  
He still has enough control to keep his hands to himself though. Forever uncertain if he should touch Hannibal. If he can. Hannibal is all around too expensive and Graham is left with his hands hovering in the air between them waiting for Hannibal to make the decision for him, or permission at least. The smile he gets is leonine and his calloused hands being guided together in front of Hannibal's own face.  
Will's chest is a rabbit hounded through a thicket, his hands shaking even as Hannibal is emptying his own wine into the professor's cupped palms. "What are you doing..?"  
Hannibal says nothing in return, just tips his chin up like he's waiting for the fucking eurochrist and Will can save his soul. Will Graham, who is certain his own soul has left his body long ago and definitely won't be returning now. Not in this moment, with the good doctor leading his fingertips to the shelf of his own thin lower lip. Hannibal, expectedly, is unflappable. As if this is something they've done, as if this is something they do. This touching, feeding, this connection and contact. Will thinks perhaps he is hallucinating again, his head is unusually light, the world calm and shadowless, all of the darkness sucked into the warm cellar of Hannibal's mouth.  
Will would be certain time has stopped finally except he can feel Hannibal's tongue coaxing the angle of his fingers. Can see the fall of red weeping from his palms into Hannibal's jaws. He's had dreams that look like this- stigmata-esque - of spilling his arterial life down Hannibal's throat. The roof of Lecter's mouth is pink and delicate and human in a way the rest of him is not. Will has the urge to scrape his nail along the ridges, back into the soft palette; feel the skin surrender. Find the pieces of the doctor that are easily punctured, to press until he gives.  
Will has forgotten the wine existed before it is gone, running down Hannibal's chin, staining his collar and tie. Dr. Lecter licks his lips, pleased as you like, and waits patiently. For what? For Will. Will, who is holding his hands awkwardly, staring at them again as if he were an infant who had just discovered them for the first time.  
His eyes half blink heavily once and he feels ridiculous saying "you know it's the same color as your eyes…" but it's the first thing that re-fluxes up his throat, acidic and painfully true.  
Hannibal smiles, all those sharp teeth and Bordeaux lips. As if this were the only thing he'd ever needed him to say; then leans forward to press his nose into Will's vulnerable lower belly. "Funny. It tasted just like you, my dear Will"  
It takes little effort for Hannibal to nuzzle the old college shirt up and press the flat of his tongue directly below Will's navel. There are many words Will's mind could supply for this moment that would be healthy; a healthy response to this. Ones that would not be a worry for his last dredges of mental stability. But the first words that are forefront to mind are fellatio and then disembowelment. The combination of both words, the resulting warmth at the base of his spine and root of his cock, raise questions that Will wants no part of introspecting right now. Hannibal is saying, "Very unrefined" and despite himself Will laughs, breathy and anxious. Ignoring the wet of the hand he presses to his own forehead. "Christ, Hannibal. Should you be insulting me with your face in my crotch"  
"It was not an insult"  
"It sounded very insult like."  
"Nonsense, Will. Refinement and pleasure do not go hand in hand."  
Hannibal's head tilts, his grin is catching, and Will can't avoid it. "Is that a fact?"  
"An indelible law, I'm beginning to believe."


End file.
